


Command Performance

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien genitalia, Angst, Bottom Kirk, Bottom Spock, Cameo by Kirk's red exercise pants of doom, Exhibitionism, M/M, Multi, Pornography, Pre-Threesome, Relationship Negotiation, Threesome - M/M/M, Top McCoy, Voyeurism, spock's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-24 00:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8349124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: The logic of the body is blunt and inelegant, inconveniently encumbered by the messy rules and laws that govern mere matter, but it has its compelling clarity nonetheless.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story responds to my own Tumblr prompt in which I speculated on what might happen if McCoy had made pornography as a young man. Another response may be found here: [I Know It When I See It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8328808/chapters/19076044), written by ScarletJedi, my happy compatriot in crime! Hers is TOS; this one is AOS.
> 
> Thanks go out to various second readers, most especially Scarletjedi, Adenil, and Onemonthonefanfic, whose responses and advice have helped immeasurably in writing this story. ^_^ Also thanks to Theanishimori for proofreading and suggestions in the last half!
> 
> Finally, this story would not have been possible without the movie _The Loft_ and its loving and lewd representations of Karl Urban's smoking hot body, which helpfully provided the inspiration and motivating force that drives Spock's voyeurism. X-D

Being single presented a number of problems Spock had not previously anticipated. 

For one, he had grown accustomed to physical intimacy and its numerous health benefits. Sudden withdrawal of sexual intimacy proved an unanticipated trial; apparently the withdrawal of such a thing was significantly different from his prior existence, during which he had been largely ignorant of sex and its benefits. However, after regular indulgence, he could easily perceive the deleterious effects of its absence. His endorphins were low, his sleep cycle was more likely to be interrupted, and his temper, though not short, was more difficult to keep fully controlled. 

However, the problem of obtaining sexual congress to remedy those symptoms was not a simple one. For one thing, it would require negotiation of the Enterprise’s convoluted command hierarchy. Protocol strongly discouraged relating to a subordinate for numerous excellent reasons, several of which had been problems for himself and Lieutenant Uhura, but given his rank of Commander and his title of First Officer, Spock effectively had no actual peers aboard the ship. 

For another thing, it might be difficult to obtain companionship even if he had numerous peers from which to select. He was aware his Vulcan heritage and his preference for reacting to stimuli with logic rather than emotion made him seem what humans termed a ‘cold fish,’ and furthermore, his inexperience with human sexual culture had caused difficulty for him at times with Nyota, who had continually pressed him to broaden his horizons in terms of including more sexually adventurous activities.

The former problem he could not remedy. The second one, however, should yield to research.

Since he was limited to a group made up more or less exclusively of Starfleet personnel, Spock limited his research accordingly. However, initial searches proved highly unsatisfactory. The videos he discovered were clearly not of actual Starfleet personnel. Furthermore, they had little to no genuine erotic content, limiting themselves to a strictly goal-based narrative. He was not particularly interested in watching an engorged male sexual organ slide in and out of an orifice repetitively for long periods of time or until he reached climax. That was already well within the limits of his understanding. 

No. He preferred a more realistic version of intimacy, one that would be both physically and emotionally satisfying to an eventual partner.

After drumming his fingers for a moment, he changed his tactics and began to search for amateur erotica. It took some time to filter out inauthentic professional free “Starfleet” videos and locate actual amateurs; eventually he did so upon a site that fulfilled its purport to deliver, as Spock read, “true-life shenanigans from Starfleet Academy.”

A long list of categories presented itself for inspection. Skipping over several dubious descriptors, he moved straight to the section featuring humans. The Enterprise did not feature many extraterrestrial species, save himself, and he felt it would be inefficient to begin his investigation with a type of partner that would not readily be available to him.

He clicked on a filename at random: SugarPlum 7, it read. Very well. He hoped the amateurs would prove less monotonous than the professionals.

Spock was gratified to observe that the room in which the video was to occur was, in fact, apparently a room at Starfleet Academy, and the young men in the video wore authentic uniforms. Their faces were blurred to protect their identities, a precautionary measure he also approved. He was a little taken aback to find that the recording featured two males rather than a male and a female—but the information was not troublesome, as he did not have a particular preference for one gender over the other.

The music, unlike the music provided by professional pornographers, was actually rather pleasant, a relaxed Miles Davis tune with a tempo that promised easy sensuality. The men on the screen were obviously well acquainted with one another; they sat down on one of the bunks and began to kiss. Spock found himself dismayed for the first time by the blurring of their faces; he would have liked to see their mouths meeting with perfect clarity. The sounds of their lips touching and parting, however, transferred quite well to the soundtrack, and he could tell they enjoyed kissing, the contact hot and leisurely as they opened their mouths to one another. 

This was more along the lines of what he had hoped to see and emulate. Nyota had enjoyed kissing him, but she had initially expressed frustration with his prowess and professed her intent to teach him how to do so satisfactorily, preferably without resorting to rote memorization and empirical quantification of the mechanical act. He was not convinced he had ever mastered the fine art to her complete satisfaction, though he was certain he had made great improvements to his technique.

There was nothing mechanical, though, about this. The two seemed perfectly spontaneous, biting and licking at one another with contagious enthusiasm. One was larger, taller, dark-haired and rangy, with long arms, a long waist, and long thighs. The other was blond, more compact than his partner, though not particularly small. Both seemed quite fit and attractive. As they began to disrobe, moving with eager sensuality, it occurred to Spock that these cadets might well have attended the academy during his own tenure there; their uniforms were a precise match for those in use at that time. Perhaps he had met these men, or even associated with them as classmates—or as students.

The thought should have disturbed him, perhaps, but it did not. Part of what he disliked about professional pornography was its flat impersonality. He still found the video format lacking, for it could only imperfectly transmit the emotional connection between the partners, but the elements of familiarity soothed him, enticing him into a more participatory experience.

Certainly pornography was intended to be participatory, and he might obtain some of the same benefits from viewing it that he would receive via intercourse with a live partner. Certainly the two men depicted onscreen were congenial to the endeavor.

Spock laid his hand over the placket of his trousers and eased his posture, allowing himself to relax. The taller man peeled the tunic off his partner with lazy grace, then ran his long, powerful hands over his partner’s chest. His hands were beautiful, with long, sensitive fingers and well-groomed nails; Spock pressed lightly along his sheath, feeling the ridge within begin to respond to the sight of them. The man used his hands skillfully, tracing along the contours of his partner’s muscles, flicking lightly at one pink nipple. It elicited a gasp and a quiver. Spock sighed, pleased, and stroked himself again, more firmly, pleasure wakening with a warm glow deep in his groin.

The dark-haired man splayed his hand, beginning to press his partner back and down. A gleam of light caught upon a ring on the smallest finger of his left hand, rich, burnished gold with a dark stone in its center—

Spock stilled, his nerves tingling, his eyes riveted on the ring. He was abruptly certain he had seen it before, and he reached to pause the video, gazing at it as he riffled through his memories, found the appropriate ones, and conducted his comparison.

Exceptionally interesting. 

He must not be too swift to jump to tempting conclusions.

His penis tingled in its sheath nonetheless, threatening to push its way out into the air. He continued the video, studying the image keenly. His hand still lay taut in its place by his erection, which continued to strain toward escape, its interest unabated. 

It took a minute or two before the blond partner succeeded in peeling away the dark-haired man’s tunic, but the additional evidence Spock sought was finally revealed: a small dark fleck of pigment located at base of his throat, very nearly centered beneath the laryngeal prominence in the suprasternal notch.

In combination with the ring, it served as sufficient grounds for conclusive identification.

Spock stopped the video again, licking lips suddenly gone dry. _McCoy._ His respiration rate increased at the same time as its depth shallowed; his penis nudged its way forward another half-centimeter, insistent in its arousal. His head swam from the combination of quickened breath and decreased oxygen uptake. 

This video had been labeled the seventh of a series. _At minimum, there were probably six more._

Moral confusion battled tentative analysis of official protocol for the situation, but both were subsumed by curiosity-- and lust. “Resume,” Spock husked, and the video began again. “Restart,” he directed, watching from the beginning with new appreciation. McCoy was graceful-- younger, but he had entered the academy as a man grown. Well past the lanky thinness of youth, his body was fully developed and nicely muscular. He moved with assurance, yet he clearly respected the value of every act-- his hands did not merely touch; they caressed. He did not merely kiss; he savored. Every motion demonstrated his awareness, his reverence, his caring for his partner.

Spock closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deeper breath in an attempt to steady himself.

“Computer, download all videos from this series,” he directed, barely keeping his voice steady. 

“Downloading seventy-four items.”

Spock’s eyes flew open wide, and he took a distinctly unsteady breath. 

It appeared his research would occupy him for some considerable time.

“Computer, stop play. Begin playing first video.”

This video, unlike the seventh, had a whimsical introductory segment, serving to introduce the partners: the compact blond man was identified by the pseudonym “Sugar” while McCoy’s alias was given as “Plum,” the flowing script names tracing across their bodies in a teasing position that obscured their genitals. 

The video also set up a thin plot-- the two men met aboard a shuttlecraft, where they shared an alcoholic drink, then were assigned to a dormitory space together, a set of circumstances that apparently served as sufficient grounds for intercourse. That was rather too reminiscent of the professional videos for Spock’s taste, but when the two settled together, their hands beginning to roam, he was more than content to watch. 

Spock sat still, the volume turned deliberately low, his attention fixed on McCoy. He ignored his simmering arousal, letting his body take care of itself. His penis pushed its way out of his sheath, arousal fluids leaking against his belly. He left it untouched for the present. By now this was more than a chance to ease his desire or remedy his ignorance; this was… intimacy. Painfully one-sided, but nevertheless the chance to know more about someone he greatly valued, in a way he had always assumed could never be.

He soaked in every detail, imprinting them all on his mind; the new information filled in around the edges of existing knowledge. He already knew how McCoy moved when briskly efficient, when annoyed, when tired-- now he developed a further vocabulary of motion assigned solely to Leonard’s body: the arch and dip of his spine as he thrust, the lush curve of his lower lip when the pixilation lagged for a split instant as he leaned for a kiss. The strength of his chest, his arms, his thighs-- it was surprising how much the standard uniform concealed with its demure tailoring; it made McCoy seem deceptively slim, but he was in fact powerfully built. Spock stroked his palm slowly against his penis, shuddering; it ached, slick with need and want. 

Onscreen McCoy laughed, caught up in the joy of what he was doing; he nuzzled in close to bite at his partner’s neck, making him gasp and arch. “That’s it, Sugar.” The voice was wrong, distorted by electronic modulation. Spock hissed in protest; he urgently needed to hear the doctor’s voice unaltered by the vocal modulation algorithm intended to protect his identity. 

“Computer, silence recording.” His own breath sounded harsh in the room. 

How would Leonard McCoy sound if he were groaning as he thrust against a lover’s body? Spock knew McCoy well enough he could easily imagine such a noise uttered in that deep voice, husky and vibrant….

Spock gasped and came without warning, releasing long spurts against the heel of his hand. He bowed his head, trying to regain his breath, aware that the video continued. However, his mind had flown to the doctor’s real voice, to his soft, self-deprecating chuckle, to the way he veiled his innermost thoughts behind shields of sarcasm and bravado.

How many secrets did McCoy keep? When he touched his partner in this video, he did not seem the same guarded, sarcastic man Spock knew. Perhaps age had jaded him… or perhaps he behaved this way whenever he was with someone he truly loved, truly trusted. 

The thought hurt Spock unexpectedly; it was an unforeseen consequence that the true intimacy he observed between these men grieved him by reminding him of his own solitude. He supposed it was unusual to feel alienation so strongly in this situation; one would rarely know the subject of a pornographic video personally, after all. 

He halted the video, inadvertently capturing a moment when the doctor’s expressive hands settled between his partner’s thighs, pushing them apart. There was a tenderness even in that. McCoy’s fingers pressed lightly at pale skin, indenting it in ten concave impressions. His palms settled on the exposed flesh behind his fingers. Spock knew this sensation; it would be warm and comforting. He too had experienced the doctor’s touch many times as McCoy discharged his medical duties. His hands were firm, competent-- perhaps gentle, if one did not resist him.

Spock had always resisted. 

He looked on McCoy’s gentleness now and desired it for himself. 

Spock arose after a time and went to wash himself, changed into his black silk robe and set up his contemplative altar, chose a calming incense, then knelt before the flame to meditate. This new, powerful set of emotions must be dealt with: accepted, understood, and placed in its proper compartment, so it would not interfere with everyday function.


	2. Chapter 2

Spock believed his efforts at concealment would meet with success; the next morning he walked into the ship’s mess at his regular time and seated himself at his preferred table. Kirk wandered in a few moments later, yawning, and got himself a cup of coffee and some toast before wandering over to join him. Then McCoy arrived. Spock was aware his respiratory rate increased upon sight of the doctor, but humans were not habitually observant enough to note such a slight change. McCoy went through the line and came up to the table.

“Morning, Jim. Spock.” He sat down happily and started to eat the food he had selected.

“That looks good. Is it coffee cake?” Kirk asked suddenly. 

McCoy took a big bite. “Yeah, I think it is. Too much powdered sugar on it, though.”

Spock froze at the coincidental inclusion of the emotionally charged word; he felt himself flush with deep embarrassment. Chagrin tightened his muscles, and he took a sip of tea to cover his confusion. 

“I’m gonna go get some.” Kirk jumped up to return to the line.

“Jim, dammit, at least get some oatmeal, too.” McCoy sighed. “Buttered toast and coffee cake. Breakfast of champions. At least _you_ eat sensibly without me having to chase you down and nag.” He smiled at Spock, warm, then frowned a little, noticing his discomposure. “What’s wrong?”

Spock desperately considered possible prevarications. “My tea is not at an optimal temperature,” he said, setting it back on his tray. It was true; the fluid was still too hot, and had left an unpleasant scalding sensation on his lips and tongue. 

“Did you burn yourself?” McCoy reached to touch his face and Spock drew back, automatic, before remembering he had resolved not to resist the next time McCoy offered contact. “Sorry.” McCoy withdrew his hand, leaving Spock untouched. “Doesn’t look like you blistered anything. If it bothers you later, come by the medbay and I’ll give you a topical anesthetic.”

Spock, his gaze captured by McCoy’s hand as it retreated and settled onto the table, found he had no suitable response to offer. He settled for a curt nod, glad when Kirk returned and flopped down carrying a plate with not one, but two pieces of coffee cake on it. 

McCoy scowled and Kirk threw up his hands in defense. “It’s not all for me! I brought one for him, too.” He deftly forked the extra slice onto Spock’s plate, and McCoy huffed with annoyance. 

“That’s all he needs: you, contributing to the delinquency of a Vulcan!”

Kirk looked up through his lashes, flirtatious, and grinned at McCoy.

Spock frowned again to himself, feeling oddly disoriented, but he accepted the cake, trying a bite. Though he would not have made such a selection himself, it was flavorful, with swirls of cinnamon throughout. There were bits of fruit baked inside, as well; he could not decide what it was.

In his peripheral vision he became aware of McCoy watching him, a tiny smile playing on his lips. When Spock looked up, it vanished as if it had never existed.

“Too much sugar for you, Spock?”

Spock froze again, hearing the word in that lazy drawl, his bite only half-chewed. He blinked at McCoy’s inquiry, then made himself resume chewing as he considered the question. Choosing a response, he swallowed. “The amount is sufficient. It is intensely sweet, but the balance of spice in the mixture renders it palatable.” He tilted his head. “It is an interesting flavor. I am uncertain I have correctly identified all the ingredients. The fruit in particular was challenging. Is it plum, perhaps?” His skin fairly buzzed with the flush that followed his words, but he kept his voice perfectly level and calm.

“Probably. It’s pretty good. You should try it with coffee,” the doctor remarked without apparent concern and applied himself to his oatmeal. “The flavors offset each other.”

Spock raised a brow. “Indeed. May I?” He reached, silently anticipating permission to take McCoy’s mug. The doctor blinked at him, startled, then shrugged. 

“Why not? But remember, it’s caffeinated.”

Spock judged a small amount of the stimulant would not prove deleterious. He took a swallow of the black coffee, which was nearly as hot as his own tea. It did, indeed, pair well with the cake.

“Now it is yourself who has contributed to my delinquency, doctor,” he said, returning the coffee and rising. “Perhaps I will vary my customary morning selections in the future.”

He left them both staring after him with surprise, aware that the spontaneous act of flirtation had perhaps been unwise, but unable in retrospect to retract it. 

*****

After reflection, Spock decided to portion out the videos strictly. Even with 74 of them available, he would one day run out of new material for viewing. Therefore, it made logical sense to appreciate each segment to its fullest, indulging himself in brief but intense sessions of observation. He estimated that by doing so, he might be able to increase the initial period of viewing to nearly a year before there was no more additional material. 

Descriptions appended to the file index indicated the episodes themselves began as simple encounters, but eventually graduated to a set of changing scenarios involving different discrete types of sexual activity. A number of them looked exceptionally intriguing, but he resolved to watch the series in order rather than skipping ahead.

And so he did, filling his mind with the image of McCoy’s strong hands on another man’s body. McCoy’s lips, not quite eclipsed by the computer masking, sliding along perfect, sleek skin. McCoy’s male organ, fully aroused, pushing into the other man’s lush mouth and emerging slick and wet. The slight softness of his muscular belly, the breadth of his fine shoulders. The mouthwatering soft pink of his nipples, alien and enticing to Spock, whose own were tawny olive. The forceful snap of McCoy’s powerful hips and thighs as he drove himself inside his partner’s body….

The images were compelling, so much so Spock could no longer guarantee his ability to maintain a neutral, unaltered manner of interaction with McCoy. Perhaps additional meditation would aid him in that goal. If it did not prove effective, then he might be well-advised to avoid McCoy, particularly during the hours directly following a viewing. 

His leisure time soon fell into a predictable but exceptionally pleasant pattern. He would discharge his obligations to duty, partake of food with the captain and Doctor McCoy, then proceed to the ship’s lounge, where he engaged in limited social interaction with varied members of the crew. Usually he played his lyre, or perhaps he indulged the captain in a game of chess. 

McCoy rarely indulged in such outings, so Spock found himself both relieved and disappointed by McCoy’s absence as he spent his time among the crew. He would invariably retire at 21:00 hours, leaving himself both time to review a new portion of the videos and to calm himself afterward with meditation. 

One night a turbolift repair forced him to take a circuitous route back to his own quarters; not only was the lift disabled, but he had to walk around most of the saucer section in order to reach a convenient emergency stair. He cut through the center to reduce the time, and found himself passing the ship’s gym. The captain worked out regularly before breakfast each morning (at McCoy’s behest); Spock had gone there to communicate with him regarding urgent work on more than one occasion. Usually Kirk preferred sparring or other battle games and used only the sparring ring. However, there was a full exercise facility, also featuring weight lifting and body conditioning machines, free weights, a small track for walking or running, and a recirculating pool. 

The gym was nearly empty at this late hour, unoccupied except for a lone figure in the pool.

Spock stopped, somewhat concerned, knowing it was considered poor judgment to swim alone. He entered the gym, and as he neared the pool, he realized its occupant was McCoy. He had turned the recirculating pump up to a respectable level, and was swimming strongly against the current, breathing in a smooth, measured rhythm between each stroke.

McCoy’s body shone among the ripples, muscular arms cutting the water with sleek, powerful strokes, his powerful thighs pumping rhythmically as he kicked. Spock felt his chest tighten, his breath coming with effort. He should retreat now; he knew it. And yet, he wished to see McCoy emerge.

He stood back with his hands clasped behind his back, deciding to chide the doctor for risking himself by swimming unattended. 

McCoy continued his swimming, straining against the powerful current, working at the extent of his physical capacity in a perfect balance of athletic prowess versus the force of the water. He was apparently unaware of Spock’s presence, so absorbed in his exercise he never looked up. Spock indulged himself, watching the doctor’s body in motion. He had grown older, but he appeared even more beautiful at this moment than in relative youth, for he was actually present. 

When McCoy finished he surfaced, puffing and blowing, and he slapped the control that slowed the recirculation. He pulled his goggles off his face and slicked his hair back, then glanced up at Spock, blinking.

“Oh, Spock! Waiting to consult me for something?” He walked through the water to the lip of the pool, folding his arms over the side. 

“In fact, I grew concerned that you were swimming without anyone else in the room. Such a practice is discouraged for reasons of personal safety.” Spock felt the excuse inadequate on his tongue now that he spoke it aloud, but McCoy’s lips quirked up in a crooked, pleased grin. 

“I do it all the time, Spock. I like coming in here late when I don’t have to fight the crowd.” 

Something about McCoy’s state of undress, the gleam of water on his flesh, and the casual disarray of his wet hair made it impossible for Spock to think. He paused for a moment too long in considering his response.

McCoy tilted his head and raised a brow at Spock, frowning a little. “What’s wrong?”

Spock felt himself flush with embarrassment. “I was surprised by the logical clarity of your reasoning,” he prevaricated, and McCoy snorted at him in response. “Have you concluded your workout?”

“All but the stretching.” With a suddenness that startled Spock, McCoy set his palms against the lip of the pool and levered himself upward, his torso emerging in a splash of sparkling droplets. He threw his legs over the edge and stood up. Water sluiced off him in a torrent, and Spock’s mouth went dry. McCoy wore only a small, tightly-fitted swimsuit. So much beauty exposed, so much skin within reach; he even knew how McCoy would respond, how he would cover Spock’s hand with his own and push it where it was wanted…. Spock took a single step away and kept his hands folded behind his back, excruciatingly correct.

“Would you hand me my towel?” McCoy reached out, expectant. After a moment Spock remembered how to speak English and finally extracted meaning from the query. Glancing about, he discovered the towel lying nearby. He handed it over, wordless. 

McCoy roughly toweled his face and hair, then leaned against the wall with both heels set well back, palms flat on the wall as he started stretching-- loosening the gastrocnemius muscles in both legs, the long line of his body perfectly straight, his feet set. “Don’t want leg cramps,” he commented, and Spock suddenly realized his unexplained scrutiny was making McCoy mildly uncomfortable. 

“If you mean to continue this practice, you should ensure you are accompanied while swimming,” Spock said quietly. “As I am typically unoccupied at this hour, perhaps I might add a regular fitness routine to my schedule, thus benefiting us both.” He should not make this offer; should _not_ , despite its logic.

McCoy turned to stare at him; beads of water streamed down from his hair, tracing the planes and curves of his chest and ribs, begging to be licked away. More gleamed in the dark, wiry hair on his thighs. “I appreciate the consideration, Spock, but don’t put yourself out for me.” He sounded pleased nonetheless, and he continued his stretches, picking up one foot in his hand and leaning against the wall as he lifted, extending the rectus femoris. The taut, perfect curve of his abdomen and thigh stirred Spock’s arousal.

“It would be a beneficial use of my time, and is therefore quite logical.” Spock tried not to stare at the disturbingly familiar body, so unexpectedly revealed before him now; he tried not to remember how it moved in the other circumstances when he had seen it bared. He failed spectacularly. He resisted the urge to shuffle his feet; within a few more moments, his arousal was likely to become evident. 

“Well, if you really want to, I could help you work up a fitness routine.” McCoy targeted another muscle group. “Why don’t you come in tomorrow and I’ll put you through a few scans, help you pick out some areas to strengthen?”

Spock tilted his head, considering. “That would be agreeable.” He took the opportunity to turn his gaze away toward the empty room, hoping it would slow the incipient progress of his inevitable biological response. 

“Do you swim at all? This is the best time of the day to get in the pool. Peak times are impossible.”

“I am able to swim well enough to survive a fall into water, but I am not naturally buoyant in the same way humans are.” It occurred to him, too late, that he could have denied the ability and requested McCoy teach him. 

“Well, you don’t have to swim if you don’t want to.” McCoy’s eyes slid over him from head to foot, speculative, and Spock tried not to breathe faster at the open scrutiny. “You’re pretty well-conditioned for someone who doesn’t work out. That’s probably because you don’t eat a lot of crap like me and Jim. But we’ll do that scan and see.” He turned away and pulled an arm in front of him, stretching out his shoulder. “Thanks for making sure I was OK.” He gave Spock a wink and a grin that made him swallow hard.

A _frisson_ ran down Spock’s spine, but he recognized the dismissal, inclined his head to acknowledge it, and departed with more than a little relief.

After some consideration, Spock decided to defer his normal viewing activity in order to put as much distance as possible between himself and his memories of the videos’ content; he would doubtless be required to maintain equanimity while the doctor subjected him to a variety of examinations, some of them involving physical contact. 

Tomorrow promised to be exceptionally interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

When Spock arrived in sickbay, he found a biobed and several pieces of equipment ready and waiting for his appointment.

“Climb up and let your friendly country doctor get to work,” McCoy invited, jovial. He looked more himself, less intimidating, in his uniform blues. However, Spock was no longer fooled; he knew the beauty that lay beneath: both body and heart. It humbled him.

He mounted the biobed as directed, feeling vulnerable as it tilted back to horizontal and McCoy stepped to his side. Spock thought the doctor would fasten the protective strap over his waist, but McCoy merely activated a robotic arm that bore a scanner and stepped back as it swept over Spock.

McCoy directed his eyes toward the readout with a calm professionalism that reminded Spock suddenly, forcibly, of the man he had believed he knew before the recordings surfaced. That man was still there; he was as real as the one on the tapes. More real, deeper, fully three-dimensional. This was Spock’s McCoy, not a faceless body, not an object. A friend. The thought was surprisingly poignant, especially given that the doctor had not yet touched him.

“You’re even more fit than I thought you were, Spock. For a man who sits in front of a computer readout all day, this is pretty impressive.” McCoy regarded the screen steadily, making no move to touch Spock. “Your posture is good, so you’ve kept your core strength, but your thighs and glutes could use work. They’re not as limber or as strong as the rest of you. I’d say a stair climber would be an ideal workout for those.”

He considered the readout, lips quirking in a half-smile. “Of course, you could stand to work your arms some, too; spot-training too much in one area isn’t good for the whole person. So maybe a cross-training machine would be better. ...I don’t like your respiratory rate; it’s a little too high for resting.” He tapped at a keyboard, making notes; above Spock the readout showed the silhouette of a person, and the areas McCoy mentioned appeared as he discussed them, circled in yellow. 

Spock should have been prepared for the cautionary notation. McCoy’s proximity was enough to account for the elevated reading, but of course, the doctor would not know that. He was not even looking at Spock.

“More exercise should help your cardiovascular response,” McCoy muttered, still tapping. “I’m not gonna nag you about your diet, as long as you don’t get too used to eating coffee cake in the morning.” 

McCoy hesitated, his mobile face working through a short progression of emotions, reflecting his inner debate as he considered his next words. “You’re tense, Spock, way too tense. I don’t like it. You may not be a candidate for heart disease, but you can’t tell me that kind of tension won’t have some kind of ill-effects eventually. Your muscles are locked up tighter than a Denarian-- well.” McCoy shook his head, interrupting his own off-color metaphor. “Does your neck hurt? Do you get headaches? No? It’s a wonder. I think you’d benefit from taking up a yoga routine two or three times a week for intense stretching and relaxation.” McCoy made an additional notation.

“And any time you work out, I want you to make sure you warm up first and cool down after. You should stretch out, too, or you could injure yourself. At the very least you could cramp up later, and I can tell you, that’s no fun. It’d be even worse with your dense muscle tissue.” He chuckled. “But you’ll do that without being nagged, because it’s logical.” 

“I will do as you advise,” Spock agreed mildly, wanting to maintain good relations. McCoy turned off the scanner and prepared to end the session. It seemed this would be the first time since he promoted McCoy to CMO in Dr. Puri’s place that the man would conduct an entire examination of Spock without so much as touching him once. He found himself most irrationally disappointed.

“I’ll prescribe a standard stretching routine, but you should branch out from it and modify one of your own. You’ll be the expert on what muscles tighten up most and need the most stretching out.” McCoy touched the base of the biobed, and it slowly tipped Spock upright again. “You’re in good condition, Spock, and you don’t have any vaccinations or supplements due for another few months. Congratulations! You check out just about as healthy as I’d expect from a man with no vices.” He smirked a little and stepped out of the way.

Spock raised a brow at him, stepping off the bed. “Doctor McCoy, I have numerous vices of which you remain unaware.”

“Oh. Do you.” Spock abruptly experienced an unexpected echo, the memory of a time when McCoy spoke those same, knowing words to him on the bridge-- right before giving him what he’d doubtless call ‘a tongue lashing.’ Spock acknowledged he would not object to a more literal application of that concept at present. However, it appeared no recriminations were forthcoming, as McCoy merely grinned at him, mischievous. “So you should, Mr. Spock. Every man should have a vice or three. It keeps him humble.”

“Indeed?” Spock could not resist the bait. “How many vices do you have?”

“The standard set. Drinking… cussing... sex.” McCoy gave him that startling wink again. “Enough to keep me busy. See you tonight at 21:00?” He proffered a disk containing his diagnosis and recommendations.

Spock took up his station on the bridge, but found it excessively difficult to concentrate, as he had just realized he would be required to share a deserted locker room with McCoy while they undressed for exercise and re-dressed afterward. He had recently watched an episode of SugarPlum that treated with relations in a gym setting, lingering on all the possible permutations in thorough and erotic detail, which was decidedly unfortunate for his peace of mind. The mental image of Plum copulating forcefully with Sugar, their sweat-slick bodies slapping against the tiled wall of a steam-filled shower, proved especially intrusive.

He found the mental images so distracting his performance was affected; a number of times crewmen had to speak to him more than once in order to get his attention. Kirk began looking concerned before mid-shift, and drew him aside at lunch.

“Mr. Spock. Is something troubling you?”

Spock considered making an honest confession, but could not bring himself to do so. “I have been preoccupied over something I saw on the holonet: a series of disturbing images.”

Kirk frowned. “Sounds pretty rough.”

“They have seized my imagination unexpectedly. I will meditate and come to terms with them.”

Kirk nodded, giving him a friendly pat on the back. “If you need to talk about anything, don’t forget McCoy’s got that degree in psychology. He’ll keep it confidential for you.”

Spock winced. “I hope I will not need to rely on counseling,” he said sincerely. “I will endeavor to improve my performance as the day proceeds, captain.”

Spock did so by assigning himself duty in the astrophysics lab, where he spent the afternoon composing a survey of spatial anomalies along their projected route and attempting not to brood on the necessity of concealing his response to McCoy later. Perhaps his decision to continue viewing the files represented a mistake. However, he could not envision himself abandoning the practice.

He deliberately delayed his arrival at the gym, hoping to miss McCoy changing clothes, and was gratified to find the doctor already in the pool when he arrived. Spock changed in private, choosing a compression suit in a restrained navy blue, and went out to climb onto the cross-training device McCoy had suggested, giving the doctor a polite if impersonal greeting. Perhaps they need not interact, after all.

He tried not to dwell on his discontent with the situation, taking comfort in the opportunity to be near McCoy without the necessity for stressful conversation. He was further reassured when Kirk arrived, completely unexpected: “The two of you might be onto something here,” Jim looked at the empty gym with approval. He vanished for a few moments, changing into a distressingly bright pair of red compression pants that fit him like a glove, and began to work a punching bag in the corner of the gym. After Kirk settled Spock could hear, but not see him; he turned up the intensity of his workout slightly from time to time as he progressed, mindful of McCoy’s advice to warm up and cool down. 

McCoy performed what seemed to be his usual workout in the pool, Spock noted, decreasing the intensity of his session when he observed McCoy likewise changing the settings on the pool. He was glad to hear Kirk stopping his own workout at the same time.

“Let’s see about those stretches,” McCoy coaxed Spock away from the machine, then gave him pointers as they ran through a routine together, ensuring he knew how to obtain the maximum benefit through proper body positioning. Even then, McCoy did not touch him, relying on demonstrations and instructions to guide Spock in proper placement. McCoy’s reluctance to touch was apparent, and Spock regretted having succeeded in impressing the restriction on the man just as he had begun to repent of it.

When the three of them finished and retreated to the locker room together, Spock was especially glad of Kirk’s presence to serve as a buffer between himself and the doctor.

“This was a good idea. I actually feel tired enough to sleep,” Kirk said, sounding slightly wearied. “And I can get a shower now, so I won’t have to have one before breakfast.”

“Yeah, I like to wash the chemicals off before I go to bed.” McCoy peeled off his swimsuit and stepped out of it, completely without shame.

Kirk did the same, leaving the red pants lying on the floor. Spock hesitated, trying to decide whether to follow suit, torn between modesty and his desire to observe unobtrusively as McCoy bathed. He would have no chance of concealing arousal, should his body thwart his stern attempts at control.

"C’mon, Spock, you’re sweaty too,” Kirk chuckled, rolling a towel deftly and snapping at McCoy’s bottom with it.

Spock had begun to reach obediently for the waistband of his trousers, but instead he went deathly still, his eyes riveted to the tableau, the taste of metal suddenly flooding his mouth. McCoy yelled his indignation and snatched the end of the towel, and the two battled over it as they chased each other toward the shower in mock-anger. 

The scene came straight out of the video, replicated with startling precision. Both of them, unmistakable, as they should have been even without the horseplay.

It was so ridiculously self-evident Spock castigated himself for failing to realize at once. 

He swallowed hard, his mind screaming with more thoughts and emotions than he could process as he stepped slowly toward the locker where his clothes waited. Sugar and Plum. Jim and Leonard. He had been a fool of the worst kind. Of course Sugar was Jim. _Of course they are lovers._

His locker door whined under his fingers, and he realized one of the hinges was warping; his fingertips had already dented the light aluminum. 

“Dammit, Jim! Cut that out!” McCoy complained loudly as steam began to pour from the shower stalls. “You scared Spock off!”

A most sensible notion. Spock hauled his uniform shirt over his head, jammed his feet into his boots, and departed swiftly with the rest of his belongings in his arms. 

He showered in his own quarters, steeling himself against the yammering emotions in his head, and dressed himself for sleep, then knelt in front of his meditation flame. He resisted the temptation to review the videos and look on Jim as he had looked on Leonard.

This was not the opportune time to indulge his lust-- or to plumb the depths of his jealousy. 

Instead he spent his evening analyzing and suppressing his emotions and composing planned scripts for all the interactions he anticipated with Kirk and McCoy the next day. He also prepared a number of all-purpose interactive strategies for improbable situations, prudently including a number of set reactions he could use as a defense should queries arise specifically related to his indiscretion.

It was dismaying to recognize he would be expected to return to the gym and participate in exercise with his captain and the doctor as if nothing had happened-- since from their perspective, it had not. At least he had set a precedent that he would not be willing to join them in the showers afterward.

Spock arose at last and made use of his final few off-shift hours by sleeping. Taking a day of personal leave claiming minor illness would not be an option; if he attempted to do so, McCoy would inevitably come to check on him and make embarrassing inquiries.

The morning began well, far better than Spock had hoped. Neither Kirk nor McCoy seemed to have noticed anything untoward in his behavior, and they acted perfectly normal at breakfast, sniping at one another cordially when he was not inclined to accept McCoy’s attempts to bait him into an argument. 

He could not help but watch them together, noting the subtle ways in which they meshed. They had been together the first time he met them, he now recalled. Kirk had sat at McCoy’s side before being called forward to face the tribunal, and if he was not mistaken, McCoy had gone to him thereafter. McCoy had then smuggled Kirk aboard the Enterprise before the Narada disaster. 

He flushed. They had made their videos while attending the academy, though they had taken an accelerated course load, graduating in only three years each. Perhaps if they had not indulged in their peculiar habit, they might have done it in two.

The uncharitable thought shamed him. He had no right to bestow condemnation, not with their entire _oeuvre_ queued on his terminal for viewing. No, these petty thoughts represented a symptom of his jealousy… though he remained unsure of whom, precisely, he was jealous. Perhaps the both of them, of their closeness, of the ease of their intimacy and the tenderness between them, the way each caress spoke of the depth of their caring.

Spock could not decode his emotions in this case, and therefore, found it impossible to defuse them properly. 

His feelings for Jim were warm and pure, and easily encompassed the captain’s physical beauty. Should Jim ever desire a physical relationship with Spock, he sensed it would come easily to them both, for they trusted one another openly, and there need not be artifice or embarrassment-- or even monogamy. Jim’s love for Spock was uncomplicated; Spock sensed it would not easily change. They were simply meant to share whatever they needed, as and when those needs became evident.

McCoy was not so simple. Antagonistic to a fault, deeply passionate but also fiercely guarded, as prone to flares of anger or compassion as to fits of outright falsehood… McCoy was a gadfly and an aggravation. It had taken Spock considerable time to come to terms with the contradiction between his competence, his intelligence, his rampant emotionalism, and his occasional belligerence. If personal competence had been less on either McCoy’s side or his own, they might have truly despised one another. And yet, as it stood… they were unspoken allies more often than not, working together in a common cause, complementing one another strength to weakness. 

For his part, Spock would have been willing to ‘bury the hatchet’ long ago, but McCoy seemed to regard their disagreements as necessary to his performance as one of his own laser scalpels. Any effort toward public _rapprochement_ was invariably deflected. The doctor would likely respond to any romantic or sexual advances from Spock with unequivocal rejection in the form of razor sarcasm applied with brutal force. And yet… there were infrequent moments of perfect accord between them. Spock was absolutely certain that somewhere deep inside the prickly exterior protecting his inner secrets, McCoy harbored a particular fondness for Spock. 

Even so, the irrational and illogical change that had come over Spock, physical attraction adding itself to friendly affection and transmuting it to more, as swift and stunning as a chemical solution changing from clear to blue with the addition of a single drop… there was no likelihood a similar transformation would ever affect McCoy.

Spock realized he was sitting in front of a flashing alarm, and that Jim had appeared at his shoulder, touching his back lightly with one hand.

“You OK, Spock?” Jim reached past him and keyed the panel, silencing the warning beep. He eyed Spock with dismay, more concerned about him than about the alarm itself. 

Spock could not truthfully say he was. “Thank you, Captain.” He checked the content of the alarm-- a notification of a minor problem on deck six, where a faulty relay had created an interruption in power affecting several corridors and their adjoining rooms. “I will notify Mr. Scott of the issue.”

“That wasn’t an answer, Mr. Spock.” Kirk lowered his voice, deep and resonant, and it sent a shiver down Spock’s spine to hear the concern in it. “We should talk about what’s on your mind.” His voice dropped again, too soft for anyone else to hear. “What you saw.”

Spock could have cursed himself for his honesty; if he had known all the facts at the time, he would never have revealed such damning specifics to Jim. He had painted himself very neatly into a corner. “Captain. That will not be necessary.”

Jim looked at him, kind and open, but there was a recognizable hardness lurking somewhere deep within his gaze, as the captain took notice of his lapse and looked out through the friend’s eyes. The captain would not be put aside, and Spock himself had caused this aspect of Jim to become involved by allowing himself to succumb to distraction on the bridge. He stifled a sigh. It would likely not be long before Jim, with his brilliant mind and his infallible instincts, sorted through the minuscule amount of available evidence and came to the correct conclusion despite anything Spock could do. 

“Jim,” he said softly. “It will not happen again.”

“Good,” Jim said, still with that hint of steel to him. “Because astrophysics just contacted me. You made a math error yesterday on the course chart for their upcoming survey targets, and they wondered whether they should actually be scanning for elevated neutrino pulses in an empty sector.”

Spock blinked, mortified. 

“Permission to leave the bridge for the rest of your shift, Commander. Get it together,” Jim said, still softly enough no one else could hear him.


	4. Chapter 4

Spock returned to his quarters at once, promptly spending a few minutes to ensure his computer records showed nothing untoward. Now that Jim was alert to the severity of his discomposure, hiding his tracks had become a necessity. Perhaps it would only delay the inevitable, but Spock felt compelled to make the effort nonetheless. At the very least, it would prevent any other curious eyes from discovering his transgression.

He sat in front of his viewscreen afterward, somber. He had not had the opportunity to view any of the videos since discovering Sugar’s identity. 

His hand hovered over the activation key for a long moment before pressing it.

Spock watched with unwarranted sobriety as the cadets who were to become his current captain and chief medical officer cavorted together on screen. There was little arousal in it for him now; instead, Spock felt the keen burden of his shame. He began to understand what he must do; he had acted unethically and was about to be caught. Logically, he must accept the consequences. A pre-emptive gesture could divert some of the stigma, and might even forestall disciplinary action. 

With a final longing look at the two men writhing together on the screen, he stopped play and began to compose a note for the captain.

*****

They came to him after the shift ended, and he heard Kirk and McCoy arrive outside together. He had not anticipated McCoy’s presence, yet he did not find it particularly surprising. He stood, deactivating the computer terminal and moving well away from it as he composed himself to answer the door.

It seemed a long while before the low chime signaled their desire to enter; immediately he spoke a quiet word, triggering the lock to admit them. They stepped in one after the other, wary, and Spock faced them, forcing away the queasiness of embarrassment gathering in his belly. 

“Captain. Doctor.” He drew himself up perfectly straight, refusing to falter. “It is fortunate that you have both come. I believe I owe both of you an explanation and an apology.” 

McCoy raised a brow, but did not speak. His hands were folded behind his back. Kirk’s eyes flickered aside to him briefly, then returned to Spock. 

“In the course of what was, in retrospect, an ill-advised inquiry into human sexual behavior, I stumbled over a set of videos featuring two Starfleet cadets of obscured identity, one of whom I soon realized I knew personally.” He held himself at rigid attention and stared at an imaginary spot approximately halfway between McCoy and Kirk, refusing to meet their eyes. His peripheral vision informed him that McCoy swallowed; his adam’s apple bobbed. Kirk remained still, resolute, his blue eyes keen as lasers. 

“I did not immediately stop viewing in light of that revelation, and later discovered the identity of the other,” Spock confessed, feeling wretched. “My curiosity was unseemly, and for that, I apologize. I also apologize for the lapse in my standard of professional performance, captain. I have informed you of my misdeed in hopes of eliminating the distraction.”

They did not seem surprised, or, for a long moment, particularly inclined to speak. Spock felt his pulse flutter in his throat, and he resisted the impulse to swallow. 

“Well, I don’t see why a few youthful high-jinks should pose such an obstacle to your composure, Spock,” McCoy said at last. He bounced a little on his heels, glancing aside to Kirk. “Nothing in particular you should be so upset about.” His voice was carefully light, nonchalant.

More than a few high-jinks, but Spock acknowledged McCoy’s words with a tight nod, cautiously relieved that the doctor had not seized the opportunity to attack.

“I agree.” Kirk nodded as well, his chin firm. He did not fold his arms over his chest. Neither did he indulge any other physically defensive behaviors, but tension crackled throughout the room nonetheless. “Relax, Spock. There’s no need to be embarrassed about it.”

“Your forbearance is appreciated,” Spock said slowly, uncertain how to proceed. “I regret my indiscretion.”

“Don’t worry about it, Spock.” Kirk held his ground for another few moments as McCoy began to drift gradually toward the door. “I just need you back in top form when you’re on duty.” A sudden sly smile drew up the corner of his mouth. “What you choose to watch when you’re off-shift is nobody’s business but your own. Provided your work performance is unaffected, I won’t have an issue with your choice; in fact, I believe those videos might prove an ideal primary research resource.” He actually grinned. “They’re pretty comprehensive, as I recall. Would that bother you, Bones?”

“Nah.” McCoy scowled and flapped a hand at Spock, dismissive. “Don’t see why it should.” His color was high, but he managed to meet Spock’s gaze with remarkable composure. 

“Thank you.” Spock swallowed in spite of himself and gave Jim an earnest look. “You have eased my mind. Anticipate no further distraction, on the bridge or elsewhere.”

They departed, Kirk giving him a final cordial nod before following close on McCoy’s heels.

Spock sagged, unable to believe what had just occurred. Though he had not known what to expect, he certainly could not have predicted how the interview would transpire. It was almost a letdown that they had greeted his painful confession with such matter-of-fact equanimity.

Perhaps they had coordinated their response beforehand. In retrospect it seemed likely, as he had only invited the captain but Kirk and McCoy had arrived together. 

Most astonishing. He had never anticipated receiving overt permission to continue viewing the material. Their response was, frankly, baffling.

Spock sat down, folding his hands, and tried to understand the implications of what had just taken place.

*****

Spock did not quite have the composure to emerge from his quarters and join the crew in the ship’s mess for dinner, or in fact to attend any recreational activities that evening. He experienced a deep surge of embarrassment when it occurred to him that Kirk and McCoy might believe he was watching them perform on video rather than attending his customary evening routine, but it could not be helped. He was not equal to light sociable interaction at present.

He managed to emerge for breakfast the next morning and was relieved when Scott and Sulu joined him at his table before Kirk and McCoy arrived, defusing some of the crackling tension that would otherwise have dominated the meal. Kirk arrived first of the two, taking his customary pastry and coffee, and McCoy came in a few minutes later, whistling to himself. He pared an apple and ate it in segments, seeming privately amused; Kirk eyed him with a smirk. 

“Busy morning, Bones?”

“No more than I could handle.” McCoy smirked back and Spock shifted, mildly uncomfortable. He wondered if they had awakened in bed together but had come to eat separately in order to avoid encouraging suspicion among the crew. Perhaps the captain’s reference was an innuendo and McCoy’s indifferent response was intended to tease him.

As the meal progressed, Spock found himself somewhat reassured by their composure. McCoy seemed a little uneasy, predisposed to look away if Spock’s gaze approached him, visibly working at maintaining his pose of studied indifference and failing to venture any typically adversarial conversation gambits. By contrast Kirk’s behavior appeared more self-assured; the captain truly did not seem troubled by what had occurred, and his talk followed its normal patterns. 

Spock could certainly understand and sympathize with McCoy’s discomfort; it mirrored his own. Perhaps in time McCoy would relax and return to his normal level of composure. If not, Spock decided to apologize to him a second time, privately, and ask what he could do to make amends.

Resolute, Spock set the matter aside and managed to concentrate on his duties. It proved far easier to do so now that he knew they were aware of, but did not condemn, what he had done.

He lost himself in his work and was surprised when the shift ended. Feeling pleasantly accomplished, he reached into the small compartment containing the disk where he logged a physical record of each daily conclusion of his shift and its transition to the next duty officer. He blinked, surprised to find a small card had been tucked in alongside the data disk. 

As the doors to the turbolift closed between himself and the captain, who had departed with unaccustomed alacrity, he opened the card and found a message waiting, hand-written: 

_(Messrs. Sugar and Plum respectfully submit themselves for the satisfaction of your esteemed curiosity. Should you be inclined to accept, please present yourself in your quarters at 19:00 hours with lights extinguished and both interior doors left unsecured.)_

Spock sat dumbfounded for a long moment until his relief arrived, clearing her throat shyly and standing at parade rest near his station. Then he gazed up, tucking the note away, and arose, yielding his seat. “Lieutenant,” he said politely. He managed to make his way to the turbolift without incident, glad when the door sealed behind him. 

Entirely unexpected, this response… and yet not without a certain logic, not when predicated on their benign response to his confession. What more reasonable act than for two sexually adventurous men to extend an invitation to another who had demonstrated signs of interest in their relationship? If they found him desirable, it should be unsurprising. 

And yet… the tenderness, the obvious bond of love between them, apparent in every gesture, every touch? To intrude on that would surely be an act approaching sacrilege, a privilege they would not extend to someone for whom they did not harbor an unusual degree of trust and affection. None of their many videos included a third, as far as Spock was aware.

And yet they were not exclusive. Spock was well aware of Jim’s voracious sexual appetite, and though he knew less of McCoy, he had never seen any signs the doctor resented the captain’s promiscuity. …Perhaps they might indeed negotiate the arrangement without incurring a disastrous interpersonal rift. Given the nature of the reward, the venture seemed within the parameters of acceptable risk.

He stepped out of the turbolift. It was just past 17:00 now; he had nearly two hours in which to prepare. No further thought of declining the invitation entered his mind. He was too preoccupied with wondering how they had arrived at the decision to issue it, whether both had been in full accord, whether either or both were sure of his acceptance, whether this might be a one-time occurrence or a long-term arrangement, what he should do to make himself ready for their attentions, and not least, what would happen when he presented himself at the appointed place and time.


	5. Chapter 5

Spock declined food, making straight for his quarters. Arriving, he paused for a moment, looking at the neatly labeled doors: Kirk’s on one side of his own, McCoy’s on the other, a fortuitous arrangement he had never before stopped to consider. Once inside his room, he surveyed his single, narrow bed with sudden doubt. Nothing could be done to remedy its small size at this late date. 

After a moment’s thought, he decided to cleanse his body. He did so, shaving his face closely, then dressed in a dark robe, leaving himself bare beneath. He belted the robe shut loosely for ease of removal, then studied himself in the mirror, wondering if he was being too forward in his choice. He decided not to second-guess himself. 

More than an hour remained, so Spock decided to spend it in meditation. Moving to the emergency access doors, both usually sealed, he disengaged the locks. Then he lowered the lights, save only the dim glow in the belly of his meditation idol. His heart rate increased, leaving him faintly breathless. He knelt on his meditation mat, feeling the air breathe against his skin beneath the robe as he moved, delightfully sensual. 

His emotions were so agitated that he had little hope of achieving a proper meditative state, so instead he let himself contemplate the images of Kirk and McCoy from the recordings-- of Sugar and Plum, locked together. Would they touch him so lovingly? What pleasures would they choose to grant him? Spock trembled, thinking of giving himself, picturing McCoy’s body bent over his, buried in his, thinking of Kirk’s lush mouth opening beneath his own. 

If he focused, he could hear sounds of motion from each cabin that bordered his own-- rather more of it from McCoy’s side. It was not abnormal to hear them moving about, but this time, it agitated him.

His internal sense of time ticked away the seconds as methodically as a clock, though they seemed interminable. 

By the time 19:00 hours neared, he was nearly unable to breathe, remaining still by sheer force of will, intending them to discover him thus-- assuming they did not regret their offer and decide to withdraw it.

The idea alarmed him, and he tensed beyond hope of control, fists knotting. He forced himself to remain still; the time was too near to risk pacing or other nervous motion. The tableau was set, and he had composed himself precisely as he wished to be found.

He heard footsteps as they approached the doors, and he tried to moisten his dry mouth; the distinctive click of communicators opening betrayed their final pause to coordinate.

And then… nothing. For an agonizing span that stretched an entire minute. ...Two. ...Three. They were now late, and still nothing. Spock suddenly berated himself for failure to test the doors when he unlocked them; would they not open? Perhaps either Jim or Leonard had changed his mind at the last moment; it must be so.

Just as he resigned himself to failure, he heard the muted sounds of the outer latches as they disengaged.

The doors opened with a quiet whisper, almost in synchrony, and a soft, startled inhalation ensued-- McCoy, perhaps surprised to find him waiting. He very nearly sagged where he knelt; he could not bring himself to look up, not even as he heard the soft pad of four bare feet approaching him. 

Spock closed his eyes and made himself breathe; fingers touched his face, sliding down to elevate his chin. He opened his eyes again, gazing up to find Jim naked before him, a little lopsided smile on his face, faintly illuminated by the dim red glow of the meditation flame. A whisper of sound and a breath of moving air announced Leonard stepping behind him, reaching to touch his shoulders, grounding and steadying him as he swayed.

Unreal. Impossible. Nothing blurred, nothing effaced, no distance of years or camera between them… they were both here with him. 

They urged him to his feet between them. Then Jim stepped close, cupping his face with perfect assurance, and kissed him: deep and hard and wet and messy, like nothing Spock had ever experienced before.

Jim’s hands settled on his face and Jim’s mind immediately spread out before him, innocent and open, full of sweetness and fire. Spock moaned, overwhelmed by feeling, his hands reaching out to explore and finding bare, sleek perfection awaiting. He dragged Jim close, devouring him, trying to resist the temptation of his mind-- but he could feel Jim’s awareness of his telepathic presence, and Jim had experienced a meld before, with the ambassador. He had no fear of it. Spock could not resist the draw of his willing mind, sliding deep without meaning to, welcomed by Jim’s soft gasp and the enfolding of Jim’s consciousness, which recognized and accepted him at once.

Leonard’s arms wrapped around him, loosening his belt and opening his robe; Leonard leaned forward and dropped a light kiss on the point of his shoulder, through the cloth. As if the moment had been choreographed, Jim backed away, then went to his knees.

Spock was already aroused, the tip of his erection protruding from its sheath; Jim’s fingers explored him, moving the loose, soft skin with care. He leaned forward, his breath cooling the moisture on the tip. Spock tried not to mewl as his warm human tongue flickered out and slid over the head, tasting the slick fluid that lubricated Spock’s penis, slightly hesitant. Jim gave a soft little hum, and Spock sensed both Jim’s pleasant surprise and the melting of his last uncertainty.

Losing Jim’s hands, Spock slid his own over Jim’s face, keeping the meld open between them. Jim’s eagerness reassured him, confident and complete, as he inhabited the moment fully.

His mouth closed over Spock, sliding down, encouraging him to push further out of the sheath. His fingers wandered, searching between Spock’s thighs-- perhaps looking for the external testes humans possessed, organs Vulcans kept located farther inside their bodies. But Kirk did not seem to mind their absence. His mind was warm with discovery and wonder; he petted the base of the loose sheath, discovering the moist opening, and coaxed the last few centimeters of Spock’s penis to emerge, rendering his erection fully engorged. 

McCoy’s strong arms encircled Spock, helping hold him upright when his knees went weak as Jim’s mouth slid down. Jim angled his head so that Spock entered his throat, and in moments his nose pressed against Spock’s belly. He began to suck, firm pressure curling around Spock’s flesh, lighting up his nervous system with a burst of sensation almost too intense to be borne. 

Spock whimpered in spite of himself; Jim was used to humans, but Spock was more sensitive.

Jim felt his discomfort and pulled off. “Sorry,” he breathed, then returned, gentling the pressure, running his warm hands up and down the backs of Spock’s thighs to soothe him. 

Perfection. Spock let his head sag back against Leonard’s shoulder, trusting the doctor to support him. He nuzzled his head against Leonard’s cheek, trying to include him in the experience, but he could not manage speech with Jim’s wicked mouth at work, drawing blazing surges of ecstasy in its wake. 

“Breathe,” McCoy reminded, his voice a deep, resonant purr against Spock’s back. His hands were frustratingly chaste, resting on Spock’s waist, warm through the robe. They did not move to explore. 

Spock shivered and moaned at the vibration of McCoy’s voice, obeying, urgently wanting more of Leonard-- his hands, his mouth, his _skin_ , but he could not think. Not with Jim’s tongue doing _that._ His mind was full of Jim-- of Jim’s delight in tasting him, Jim feeling the texture of his skin and the crisp wiry hair on his thighs, Jim moving one hand and sliding his fingertips through the slick moisture gathering at the opening of Spock’s sheath to collect it, then moving his fingers back….

Spock cried out softly as Kirk found his goal. He transmitted as much of his pleasure to Jim as he could, making Kirk groan around him. Jim’s finger traced his anus, then slowly pressed inside, and Spock felt McCoy’s sturdy arms cradle him as he writhed, on the verge of orgasm already-- too fast, too soon. Beyond finding words, Spock sent a warning image of himself ejaculating inside Jim’s mouth, but Jim only chuckled around him and took him deeper-- the finger sliding deeper inside, too, readying him for penetration.

McCoy seemed to sense Spock’s impending climax; he moved a hand to brace against Spock’s chest, one fingertip circling his nipple through the cloth of his dressing gown. Given its source, Spock could not withstand the additional stimulus. He went rigid, uttering cries he could hardly believe came from his own throat, and spent himself in Jim’s mouth, jerking helplessly. McCoy held him, reassuring, and Jim did not withdraw until he stilled. Leaving his finger buried, Jim gently cleaned Spock with lips and tongue before pulling off and looking up, his eyes gleaming in the faint light, his lips curving in a satisfied smile.

 _Perhaps Leonard will take me now,_ Spock thought, hazy and loose-limbed. Pleased, he nestled his buttocks back against McCoy to invite the contact, feeling evidence of the doctor’s arousal through the cloth that separated them. 

Unlike most humans, Spock could ejaculate multiple times from one erection; fortunately, his lovers seemed aware of the difference and did not pause in their attentions to him. 

McCoy reached into the pocket of his own garment and brought out a small tube, offering it to Jim, who took it. It contained a lubricant that would be necessary since human male genitalia did not self-lubricate, Spock realized as Kirk withdrew, coating his fingers. When Kirk returned he pressed two fingers in, watching Spock’s face with avid attention.

“Please,” Spock whispered, pressing back against McCoy again; the doctor’s hands were still on him, remaining outside his robe, though he stubbornly craved them on his skin. McCoy remained aloof, his reserve frustrating Spock.

“Shh. Try a little deeper, Sugar. I’ll get a toy if you need the extra reach; it’s gotta be in there somewhere,” McCoy murmured. His familiar voice soothed Spock, its steadiness reassuring him. Then Jim’s exploring fingers found what he sought and Spock arched, crying out again.

“That’s it.” McCoy’s breath was warm against Spock’s ear, his body a solid resting place, keeping Spock upright. “He’s heavy. We’re gonna need to lay him down if you keep doing that.”

They steered Spock to his bed, where he reclined on McCoy’s lap while Jim knelt between his knees. He glanced up, finally able to see the doctor, whose attention unfortunately seemed focused solely on Jim. McCoy kept his hands resting firmly on Spock’s shoulders but made no other move.

Spock gazed up at him, entranced by the sight of his features at the unfamiliar angle, luxuriating in the aftermath of pleasure and the sweetness of Kirk’s fingers stirring inside him. 

Kirk withdrew, glancing up to McCoy. “Plum, he’s ready.” 

“You go ahead, Sugar.” McCoy’s voice was kind, a little too quiet. “I’ll keep.”

Spock might have protested, impatient to receive McCoy’s attention, but he had no objection to Jim, and he thought it impolite to request alterations to their plans. McCoy remained where he was, cradling Spock in his lap. Now that he could see the doctor, Spock observed he was fully clad in a two-piece garment, dark blue, the fabric made of soft cotton-- maddeningly demure, almost priestlike, it buttoned to the chin. McCoy had yet to touch Spock’s skin. Even now his hands rested on fabric, though Spock’s body lay mostly exposed between the open flaps of the robe.

Spock blinked up at him, dismayed; the pattern was now well-established and had become disturbing. Perhaps he had erred in accepting their offer, if McCoy had no desire for intimate contact with him. 

“Hey.” Jim’s warm voice reclaimed his attention. He was ready, lifting Spock’s hips and positioning himself for entry. “This OK with you?”

“Yes,” he breathed, earnest; he could refuse neither of them. 

Jim pushed inside, erasing rational thought from his mind; Spock retained only the capacity to feel the substantial male organ pressing within him, its girth, its lubricant-slick skin, its subtle pulse, and its intoxicating human heat. Spock swallowed, twisting his hands in the bedding, and made an effort to breathe evenly. 

Jim smiled down at him, soft-eyed, his lips parted with pleasure. He ran his hands along Spock’s flanks, caressing him with an attentiveness that spoke of great affection. “Beautiful,” he said, sheathing himself slowly with a steady and patient forward motion of his hips, allowing Spock to adapt gradually to the intrusion.

Spock sighed, arching, glad of the fullness inside him, grateful also for McCoy’s warmth behind his head. He reached, hoping to find McCoy’s hand, but it had been withdrawn, so all he could do was lay his arm across his body and rest his palm on McCoy’s thigh, trying to signal his appreciation with a caress. But then Jim struck the sensitive place deep inside him, and Spock could do nothing but hang on, his eyes drifting shut, his lips parting as he began to moan. 

The whole beautiful process began again, Kirk’s skillful hands and body drawing pleasure from him as they roved over him with sweeping, burning grace. Jim leaned in and kissed him, every brushstroke of lip and tongue leaving Spock breathless. McCoy was aroused as well; Spock was certain of it, and took comfort in the knowledge. He could feel the doctor’s erection behind him, and he would have reached to stroke it if he could, but the angle was poor and Jim’s touch rendered him incapable of multitasking to any significant degree. 

His body sparked anew to Kirk’s arousal, which poured through his mind with every brush of hands on skin. He gave back his own, soaring with Jim as his thrusts sped up, as he grew short of breath, hips stuttering, as his fingers bit into Spock’s hips and he temporarily ceased to respire, his body convulsing with ecstasy as he poured his semen into Spock. He groped for Spock’s hand, lifting it to his lips, and kissed his sensitive fingers, the two of them shivering through a long moment of aftershock, then Jim slowly collapsed atop him, his penis sliding out once more, leaving Spock curiously empty. 

McCoy’s hand reached out, brushing Jim’s sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, thumb tenderly caressing the rim of Jim’s ear. Spock sought the doctor’s attention once more but again it did not come to rest upon him. Unable to embrace McCoy in this position, Spock slid his arms around Jim instead, holding him with careful reverence, liking the velvet-slick feel of solid muscle under his hands. Jim mouthed lazy kisses along his collarbone, sighing with satisfaction.

McCoy moved away and Spock gazed after him with concern, but he returned swiftly, carrying warm, damp cloths. He handed Spock his own, then helped Jim clean himself, fussing quietly. McCoy stubbornly avoided Spock’s gaze as he worked, his brisk efficiency far more eloquent of the doctor than the lover, a distinction that increased Spock’s growing dismay. 

When McCoy turned to take the used cloths away, Jim’s hand shot out and caught his wrist. Jim lifted himself enough to glance up into McCoy’s face, and the two of them exchanged a long, speaking look that made Spock’s contentment recede entirely, replacing it with worry. 

McCoy rotated his wrist, escaping Kirk’s grasp, then gave them both a sly wink, setting the tube of lubricant on the shelf above Spock’s bed within easy reach. “I’m an old man; I need my beauty sleep. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen,” he said with a passable imitation of joviality and excused himself swiftly. 

“Damn it,” Jim dropped his forehead in defeat, breathing the curse against Spock’s skin. 

_If you want him, you’ve got to go after him, Spock._ He did not speak the words aloud, but they echoed in Spock’s mind as he rolled to one side, freeing Spock to arise. _I know how you feel, even if he doesn’t._ Images flickered through his thoughts, each one fleeting but crystal-clear: numerous times Jim had watched him gazing at McCoy unobserved. Spock had been entirely unaware of the subtle expressions that had escaped to soften his face or warm his eyes. _He needs you to show him._

_He does not desire me._

“Bullshit.” Kirk spoke aloud again, pushing not quite gently at his shoulder. _Go. I’ll come join you when things are good again._

Spock rose, giving McCoy’s door a wary look; it had been pushed shut and he had little doubt it would be secured from the other side. He was surprised when it yielded to his touch, revealing McCoy’s empty quarters beyond. The light was on in the bathroom Leonard shared with Mr. Scott, a dim illumination glowing from under the door.

Spock stepped forward and stood very still just inside the room. Unsure of his welcome, he waited until McCoy emerged, his face wet from washing, his expression bleak, unguarded.

Spock moved, making a small sound, and McCoy blinked at him with sudden cognizance. He stilled, tensing, and they faced one another across the dim room. Spock realized belatedly that he had not covered himself; his robe lay open, the belt fluttering around his calves. 

McCoy’s gaze flickered past Spock to the door, and a fleeting pinch of his brow indicated his regret at neglecting to lock it behind him. Then his face smoothed. 

“What’s wrong? Did you need something?” McCoy blinked at Spock with bland welcome, again hiding behind the professional mask of the doctor.

“Yes,” Spock said simply, the words coming more easily than he could ever have anticipated. “I have tasted the sugar. Now I desire the plum.”

McCoy’s eyelids fluttered and he drew a low, startled breath. His lips parted as if he were uncertain, then firmed again. “Hell, Spock, anybody can see how you and Jim feel about each other. You don’t have to pretend you want m--”

“No.” Spock interrupted, no longer caring for politeness. “There is no pretense involved.” He stepped forward, watching McCoy’s eyes grow wide, and advanced into his personal space, causing McCoy to back away until his shoulders struck the bathroom door. Moving slowly, deliberately, Spock raised his hand and slid it behind McCoy’s neck, taking care to touch only the collar of his pajamas, gauging his reactions carefully for signs of actual resistance. “It was you who first engaged my interest and sustained it.”

McCoy did not fight his touch; instead his eyes went wide, pupils dilated and dark. His lips parted to reveal the nervous flicker of his tongue. They remained open, inviting, to allow his quickened breath to issue through. 

Spock tilted his head and leaned forward-- moving deliberately, giving McCoy time to struggle, to pull away. 

Leonard stood his ground. 

Spock kissed him, soft and intense, capturing his lower lip with slow precision, lingering to suckle at it. McCoy’s breath fluttered against Spock’s face and his heart thundered in his chest. Spock pulled back slightly, regarding Leonard’s closed eyes, his soft red mouth, the way he labored for air as if he could not get enough. The doctor’s surface thoughts were a tumult of conflicting feelings, almost too many to be classified-- but foremost amid them was a rising tide of desire.

Spock closed the distance again, and this time his hand firmed, sliding up into Leonard’s hair and dragging him forward. Leonard opened for him, and the kiss abruptly turned fierce, lips clinging and dragging, soft wet noises intimate between them-- then it turned savage as teeth clashed and sank. Spock drove Leonard up against the wall, holding him there full-length. Leonard was hard, his erection hot and eager through the thin cotton. Spock shaped its length with one hand, holding Leonard pinioned with the weight of his body. He made a low sound of need, of satisfaction, and Leonard moaned into his mouth, surrendering. His arms came behind Spock’s neck and locked there, holding him fast. 

Hot, hard kisses ensued, tongues passing back and forth, sliding wet and wicked between their mouths. Leonard’s surprise rapidly gave way to lust. Boundless, their kisses revealed the cravings in Leonard’s mind: long-established, long-hopeless, disbelieving to the very last, and frantic with sudden urgency. 

The kiss broke and Leonard gasped for air, dragging his lips along Spock’s jaw, biting at the lobe of his ear. Spock took the opportunity to lift him, carrying him easily. Leonard clung, nails biting into Spock’s shoulders as Spock laid him on the bed and sank down with one knee on either side of his waist.

He threw off his robe, letting it flutter and fall in the darkness. Leonard’s waist burned hot against the interior of his thighs; the doctor’s chest rose and fell swiftly. He was still buttoned to the throat.

“Do you value this garment?” Spock set his hands in the collar of Leonard’s pajamas. His voice sounded strange to himself, full of gravel. 

McCoy licked his lips and shook his head once.

“Most satisfactory.” Buttons popped in every direction and seams purred, giving way as Spock tore the shirt off him with deliberate force. A wasteful gesture, it nevertheless achieved its goal swiftly and also seemed to convince Leonard of Spock’s enthusiasm. He lay revealed, his wrists falling to the side of his head as Spock dealt summarily with the remnants of his sleeves. 

The trousers were swift to follow, yielding more easily as he dragged them down over Leonard’s feet, throwing them aside. He gazed up along Leonard’s body, then set himself to kiss his way back up to Leonard’s mouth, beginning at the instep of his left foot.

Leonard gasped, his head falling back. 

The logic of the body was blunt and inelegant, inconveniently encumbered by the messy rules and laws that govern mere matter, but it had its compelling clarity nonetheless. Spock took his time in demonstrating it to Leonard, nuzzling up along his powerful thighs, exploring his male organs, fascinated by the testicles in their purse of soft, loose skin, so much like his own sheath. He paused there, investigating the way they moved, round and firm between his fingers. He nosed along Leonard’s penis, inhaling deeply to memorize his scent-- another fault of the videos, which gave a viewer no such pleasure. 

“Dammit, Spock, don’t tease!” McCoy lifted his hips, his voice hoarse, pleading. Spock raised a brow at him and went back to nosing up and down, enjoying himself thoroughly. To his Vulcan sensibilities, McCoy was quite unfamiliar-- his penis smooth and very dry, which rendered it exceptionally pleasant to kiss. Spock particularly liked the loose skin around the tip and the salty fluid that beaded on the glans, scented strongly with the earthy smell of McCoy and the richer, deeper notes of sex. 

McCoy’s hands settled on his head, trembling; Spock paused, raising a burning gaze to McCoy, challenging him. Daring him. 

McCoy’s tongue fluttered out, nervous, to lick his lips; then his hands firmed and he moved Spock’s head, centering him where he was wanted, the very light pressure of his palms suggesting rather than requiring. Still too tentative, too unsure.

“Of course I am willing to do as you wish, Leonard.” Spock let the words brush his lips against the tip. “I look forward to it greatly. You have only to ask.”

“You pointy-eared plague,” McCoy hissed, his exasperated tone greatly at odds with the gentleness of his fingertips, brushing tenderly over the appendages in question. 

Spock chose to answer by licking away the salty droplet that welled before him, brushing his lower lip against the wet trail left by his tongue. 

McCoy drew a sibilant breath through his teeth. “Suck me,” he whispered, rough and uneven, embarrassment an incongruous flare around the edges of his aura. “Please.”

Spock obeyed at once, opening his lips and engulfing the head, soon finding himself baffled by McCoy’s rigid length. A moment’s thought revealed the solution; tilting himself slightly to align his throat with the trajectory of the shaft, he continued downward until he had taken it all.

Leonard lay under him, quivering, throwing his arm over his lips to help muffle the sounds Spock knew he wished to make. He could not fully discern Leonard’s thoughts; they had never melded fully and he was not in contact with any psi points at present, but he could gauge Leonard’s response by the quivering tautness of his flanks and thighs. He sensed Leonard wished to thrust, but would not allow himself. Spock stilled, looking up along Leonard’s body, waiting.

“Goddammit,” McCoy whimpered. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

 _Yes._ Spock hummed, pleased to find himself able to breathe carefully around the shaft in his throat, if he held still and did not try to draw too much air at once. He craved Leonard’s confidence, his gentle assertion, the same loving dominance he displayed with Jim. 

Leonard lifted his arm, glaring at Spock, who met the look without flinching. He swallowed once, a long ripple of the muscles in his throat. Leonard moaned and his hips shifted upward despite himself. Spock slid his hands under Leonard’s buttocks, supporting him at the top of the aborted thrust, then allowing him to subside. He fluttered his tongue against the pulse that beat frantically at the base of the shaft he cradled inside his mouth, withdrew, then stopped.

Leonard lifted again, careful, pushing in. Spock sucked as he thrust, never dropping his gaze, then stopped when Leonard stilled again. 

“ _Fuck,_ Spock,” Leonard complained, but he began to move, carefully sliding in and out of Spock’s mouth, his hands trembling on Spock’s head. Gratified, Spock worked to please him, experimenting with suction and moving his tongue, finding combinations that made Leonard gasp and quiver. He worked slowly at eroding McCoy’s control until the doctor moved a little harder, with instinctive urgency, sweat gleaming on the long, pleasantly soft plane of his muscular belly. 

Spock was eventually forced to withdraw to breathe; he nibbled teasing kisses along the wet, taut skin of the shaft, making Leonard’s breath hitch in his throat.

“I wish for you to fuck me, Leonard.” He heard McCoy’s breath sob in his throat at the unexpected obscenity; the doctor’s warm, smooth cock twitched urgently against his cheek, painting a stripe of Leonard’s musky scent over his cheekbone. 

Leonard dragged him up, seeking his mouth; Spock yielded blissfully to the invasion of his tongue. This was what he craved, this passionate, aggressive sweetness, strong and perfect. He savored being rolled over, strong hands firm and gentle, arranging him as he was wanted. McCoy laid him on his side and lifted his thigh, urging Spock himself to hold it upraised with one hand. McCoy’s hands, rough and gentle all at once, moved on him, possessive on his ribs and back.

Spock sighed with bliss as Leonard’s body pressed up against his back, penis finding him stretched and open, pushing into him without further hesitation.

Spock purred with satisfaction, closing his eyes; Leonard’s hand slid around his chest, settling at the base of his throat and holding him firm. His other hand reached around Spock’s head and found his outflung arm; McCoy laced their fingers together.

Spock uttered a soft, pleased cry as the contact between their fingers brought the doctor’s mind close to his. McCoy echoed the sound with a moan and surprise filtered through the channel between them, but he did not withdraw, stroking into Spock firmly, seeking. Spock tilted his hips to help, groaning as the angle improved. 

The next stroke found its mark, and McCoy gasped as the echo of Spock’s pleasure transmitted itself to him. He rumbled satisfaction and twined their hands more tightly, pressing soft, lingering kisses to the back of Spock’s neck. “God, that’s good, but you’d better tone it down or I won’t last,” he warned, squeezing Spock’s hand to reassure him. “Let me have more of it next time, after I take the edge off.”

Spock smiled into the dim of the doctor’s quarters, pleased to hear there would be a second experience. 

“Spock?” McCoy’s voice strained in his chest. “Are you… _smiling?”_

“Yes, Leonard.” He tightened his body, making McCoy gasp a strangled oath. 

“I could… feel it,” Leonard said. His breath came unsteadily, ragged gusts against Spock’s skin. “Felt good.” He thrust forward, sinking deep, and Spock moaned, arching against him.

After that Spock’s perception went hazy, a blur of sweet friction and writhing bodies punctuated by McCoy’s hot breath against the back of Spock’s neck, the slap of skin on skin, soft groans and the clutch of tightly-tangled hands, until all that mattered was the climactic sunburst of pleasure singing between them. Spock roused at last to awareness of the slow, lazy kisses against his neck and the strong, sensitive hand sliding down his chest and belly, exploring along his flank and thigh. 

McCoy touched him just as he had dreamed, the palm flat on his skin, fingers splayed to capture every inch of him, sensual and reverent. Spock sighed with pure pleasure.

Moving lazily, luxuriant with bliss, Spock managed to turn himself and enfold Leonard in his arms. Perfect surgeon’s hands smoothed over his back, McCoy’s generous mouth brushing soft, wet kisses along his jaw. There seemed no need for speech.

“Look at you two,” an amused, warm voice finally roused them. Spock felt McCoy’s head turn to hunt for Jim. “Incredible.”

“Jim, I’ll be damned,” McCoy’s voice had turned husky, deep in his throat; he didn’t really sound angry. “Where the hell’d you get that camera?”

Spock raised himself with mild alarm, glancing at Jim; sure enough, he was filming from the doorway, slouched against one side with just a sheet wrapped around his hips. …One of Spock’s sheets. 

“If you thought I wasn’t going to record that so I could watch it over and over and over, you had another think coming.” Jim grinned, disarming.

“I would object most strenuously to the publication of a seventy-fifth installment of your erotic series,” Spock informed Jim sincerely without releasing McCoy. He laid a possessive hand on Leonard’s gluteal muscle, pulling him closer. McCoy nestled against him, instinctive and warm.

“No, this goes into our private library,” Jim chuckled, then set the camera aside and came to them, sitting on the edge of the bed and setting his hand on McCoy’s arm. “Told you so, Bones.”

McCoy flushed so hot he almost burned against Spock’s skin, burrowing against Spock’s neck to hide his embarrassment. Spock pressed against him, soaking up the sensation, leaving room for Jim to lie down and nestle up against his back, though he was barely able to find enough room on the narrow bed. 

“I’m gonna requisition one of those married quarters mattresses and say it’s for a species who are four meters tall and three meters wide,” Jim mumbled, happily squirming his cool hands between Spock and McCoy to warm them.

“Starfleet will know there are no such species or couples aboard the Enterprise,” Spock pointed out. “Such a bed would not fit in any of the crew quarters.”

“I’ll order a king-sized bed and blackmail them till I get it.” Jim wriggled forward, at the risk of pushing McCoy off the opposite side of the bed. “So what’re we gonna call him, Bones?”

“Hm?”

“Spock. When I label the tape.”

Spock cleared his throat, attempting to sound forbidding, aware that he stood no chance of dissuading Jim. 

“Fairy,” Bones temporarily pried his head away from the love bite he was suckling onto Spock’s throat. “He’s definitely got the ears for it.”

Jim giggled; there could be no other word that accurately described the sound. “Sugar Plum Fairy? Perfect.”

“Tchaikovsky reference notwithstanding, that is precisely the sort of racially insensitive appellation that persuaded me you would have no interest in my affection,” Spock informed McCoy, attempting to be severe and failing utterly.

“I had no…? It was _you_ who never…. Hell. Shut up, Spock,” McCoy told him, putting a caressing hand over his mouth when he would have persisted. “Help me shut him up, Jim.”

Together they did so most satisfactorily.


End file.
